


Thirty Three Hours Without John Watson

by Bookaholic, mybrotherharry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Authors have no excuse, Bets & Wagers, Crack, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, Inappropriate use of grocery store queues, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Not Britpicked, Pining, we are so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookaholic/pseuds/Bookaholic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybrotherharry/pseuds/mybrotherharry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can SO TOTALLY survive without John Watson. It should be a piece of cake. </p>
<p>AKA the time when Sherlock braved grocery store lines for milk, purchased and gave away a box of tampons and figured out what the X-Factor is. Greg and Mycroft didn't sign up for this shit. Next time, they are going to the Bahamas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Three Hours Without John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> This happened when Bookaholic and I decided to tag team each other on a google doc. So basically, poor decision making and a lot of free time. That has never resulted in anything good, has it? We are sorry not sorry. 
> 
> We don't know anything about the personal lives of Simon Cowell or Cheryl Cole or One Direction. Sherlock has his deductions, and he is unapologetic about them.

Sherlock pretends to be asleep when John packs his bags and moves out.

He listens and counts the thuds on the stairwell, the fall of John’s heavy footsteps, so familiar and yet so foreign in this moment of desertion. He stays still on the sofa, staring at the rotting wallpaper till Mrs. Hudson comes in to check on him.

“I can’t believe it,” she says, and Sherlock ignores her. He is very good at that. “He really is gone, isn’t he?”

“Do we have biscuits?” Sherlock asks. He needs tea. He remembers how John used to reach for the kettle every time he felt any particularly strong emotion, always making sure to leave a cup for Sherlock. Perhaps tea could fill this..this vacant feeling inside of him. Interesting. He should probably investigate that. Is this a feeling particular only to John?

“Not your housekeeper, dear,” Mrs. Hudson tells him from the kitchen, the sound of the kettle being put on unmistakeable in the din of the flat. “Just this once, because you two had a domestic.” 

“We did not have a domestic, Mrs. Hudson. Where are my biscuits?”

“I think John ate the last of them, love, but if you want I can pop to the corner-”

“Please.”

Sherlock buries his face in the back of the sofa, listening to Mrs. Hudson’s slow descent down the stairs. He contemplates getting up and starting his experiment on the feeling in his chest, but is interrupted by the phone. His heart jumps for one wild moment.

_ John. _

Sherlock races into the kitchen, picking up the phone from where he’d discarded it carelessly that morning, right next to the diseased liver.

“Jo-”

“Hello, brother dear.”

“If you’re calling to gloat, Mycroft, your comments have been considered and discarded. I-”

“Why is there an army doctor outside my door?”

Sherlock isn’t proud of the minute of stillness it takes for his mind to process that information. Once it does, he makes no effort to control the smile spreading on his face. 

“He’s there? He actually did it? He is there, isn’t he?” 

“For God’s sake Sherlock, whatever domestic the two of you had, can you resolve it  _ before _ Greg gets home?”

“Why?” Sherlock cannot help the smugness in his tone as he asks. “Is the British Government frightened of its husband?”

“‘Frightened’ is such an extreme term, wouldn’t you say?” Mycroft retors back, too comfortable in their banter to give in. “I would be -  _ inconvenienced,  _ let’s call it that - I would be inconvenienced if Greg were to get home and find his best drinking buddy doing the dishes in the kitchen.”

“I am John’s best drinking buddy,” Sherlock pouts, put out. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft snaps, his patience wearing thin. “You don’t  _ drink.  _ That is a little bit of a requirement for a  _ drinking  _ buddy.”

“I don’t see how that has got to do with anything. Anyway,” Sherlock responds. “Keep him there and keep him fed. He is yours for the foreseeable future. He likes chocolate chip cookies and he is allergic to peanuts.”

“I am not your nanny - “

“Bye, Mycroft.”

Sherlock isn’t proud of the little thrilled jump he did when the call snapped shut with the press of the End button. John was fine, John was more than fine. John was being his usual, stubborn and ridiculous self. Mycroft’s little condo was safer than the Prime Minister’s home. John was just fine. He will get over their stupid little bet (after Sherlock wins, of course) and he will be back in Baker Street in no time. 

Sherlock gives him two days. Two days before the tremor in his left hand comes back, and John comes running back to him. Sherlock grabs his coat and scarf, if he hurries he can make it to Bart’s before Molly goes home. If he smiles at her and talks to her for a while, he might even get a fresh liver out of it. He can finally use Molly’s convenient infatuation with him without John breathing down his neck and narrowing his eyes just so until Sherlock can’t go through with it.

Ignoring the feeling in his chest (he really needs to get that investigated. Maybe Molly could lend him a heart?), he hails a cab.

*

**_2 hours, 20 minutes and 54 seconds since John moved out_ **

He is slicing the liver into thin sections, his movements precise and clean. He hears footfalls on the rickety stairwell, too heavy to be John, too quick to be Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson.

_ Lestrade. _

“Hello, Gavin.”

“That’s not- Sherlock! Why is John at our place, what did you do?” Lestrade is panting, the four pounds he has gained since the wedding clearly playing their part. 

“Didn’t John tell you?”

Lestrade barks out a laugh, sounding slightly hysterical.

“It is our anniversary, Sherlock!”

"You and John have an anniversary? I didn’t realise being drinking buddies involved celebrating anniversaries.”

“You bastard. I meant Mycroft!  _ Our  _ wedding anniversary! And now your blogger is in my house with my husband, watching  _ The Great British Bake-off!” _

“Ugghh,” Sherlock groans, still not looking up from his very fascinating liver. “Hide the flour, Gerald. Last time Mycroft binge watched that godforsaken show, he baked for eleven hours straight and got fatter, if that is possible.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Greg falls into John’s armchair and Sherlock’s brain screams - ‘ _ Wrong! Wrong! John’s chair, John’s chair.’ _

“He will spend the next seven days going on one of his insane diets - Sherlock, are you even listening to me?” 

“I don’t see the problem here, George,” Sherlock mutters. “Did you know blood clots in the liver can be used to determine time of death based on their thickness?”

“Do I look like I care, Sherlock? For crying out loud, wear gloves! Wear gloves! God, I think I am going to be sick.”

“There is a bin by the sofa - “

“Why is there a bin by the sofa, and urrrgghh, when was the last time this was cleaned?”

“Thursday,” Sherlock says wistfully. “John takes the trash out on Thursday. He is quite regular that way. He makes a fine roommate, don’t tell him I said that. You are very lucky, German.”

“GREG!” 

“My name is Sherlock, what? Have you been drinking? Can I tell John you went drinking without him?”

Greg gives up. Greg gives up on the two morons he is unfortunate to have in his life, makes plans to throw Myc in a limo and drive to the airport, the country and the homicide department be damned for the next two days. If war breaks out, it really is Sherlock’s fault, to nobody’s surprise. 

“Have fun with your liver, Sherlock,” Greg calls over his shoulder as he shuts the door behind him. 

“Bahamas,” Sherlock yells to his retreating back. “Mycroft loves the Bahamas.”

*

**_4 hours 15 minutes and eleven seconds_ **

It has been twelve hours since Sherlock has eaten. He had tried to make a cup of tea earlier, but it never tastes the way it does when John makes it. Maybe John went to tea-making classes. It seems like a useful skill to have; Sherlock makes a mental note to look them up online.

Ignoring the slight pangs in his stomach, Sherlock flips open his phone and searches for John’s contact. Maybe he should text him. Yes, Sherlock will text John casually, just one friend to another. 

_ I need tea. _

Sherlock pretends that he isn’t sitting on the sofa with eyes glued to his phone. John’s response comes much later than it should; really,  _ what was John doing that was more important than Sherlock? _

_ Sod off. _

Sherlock frowns. That isn’t very nice. How rude of John.

_ I’m hungry, John. My last meal was twelve hours and twenty minutes ago.  _

Sherlock totally had this in the bag. John wouldn’t be able to resist a hungry Sherlock, pleading to be fed. 

John however, doesn’t magically turn up at the doorstep with a cup of tea, like Sherlock envisions (hopes). His reply comes a whole ten minutes later.

_ You’re a chemist. Cooking involves science. Try it out. And before you set the house on fire, send Mrs. Hudson over to Mycroft’s. We’re watching the X-Factor. _

_ Is that a gene? _

_ What? _

_ The X-Factor. Is that a gene found in females, maybe? I didn’t know there was a show like that. Why do we never watch the X-Factor at home, John? I would’ve liked shows that don’t involve illicit affairs or baking. _

_ Bye, Sherlock. _

Sherlock frowns. This has been most unsuccessful. Maybe if he lures John by recording this X-Factor, he would show up with tea. Sherlock really needs tea.

_ John, the bet is still on, isn’t it? _

_ Sod off, Sherlock. _

_ * _

**_Eight hours, forty minutes and twenty eight seconds since John moved out_ **

The X-Factor is most definitely not about biology. That had been one of the more disappointing Google searches of Sherlock’s life, including that time about Grey’s Anatomy. 

Sherlock orders a box set on Amazon anyway. John is always on his case about gift giving and thoughtfulness. If the box set got paid for using Mycroft’s card, nobody need know about it. 

Sherlock is on his back on the sofa again, laptop balanced on his growling stomach. He is certain that this Simon Cowell is having an affair with Cheryl Cole. How has nobody seen this yet? Her nail polish is chipped and Simon’s nose is sniffling all the time. Shame. He had liked Cowell. 

“How long have you been sitting there?”

Sherlock jerks upright, laptop going flying in his hurry. He finds Molly Hooper leaning against the doorframe, a heavy brown paper bag in her hand. 

“What are you doing here, Molly? And I know nothing about any hypothetical livers that may have gone missing from the morgue. Hypothetically.”

“Sure,” she smiles at him pitifully. Sherlock is angry. He doesn’t need anyone’s pity. He is just fine. He is  _ fine _ without John, okay? It will be nice though if she sat next to him and gave him a hug. But otherwise, he is just fine. 

“I brought Chinese,” she walks to the table and sets the bag down, reaching for plates and forks from the cupboard. “Eww, you really ought to wear gloves, you know? What have you done to this hypothetical liver that I don’t know about?”

“Never mind,” Sherlock shrugs and walks in the general direction of the food, following his nose. “Kung Pao chicken?”

“Your favorite.”

“John called you?”

“Nobody called me,” she states, a little too aggressively. Sherlock isn’t the world’s most observant man for nothing. “I just happen to know your favorite Chinese order.”

“John called you.” Sherlock smiles and takes the box out of her hands. The John voice in his head chides,  _ don’t be rude. Offer her a plate. _

“I am winning this bet, Molly Hooper,” he tells her through a mouthful of rice.  _ Manners, Sherlock,  _ John snaps again. 

“What is this wager, anyway?” Molly asks him, serving herself rice and egg rolls and steering clear of the hepatic bloody murder on the table. “What? I bought you food. The least you can do is entertain me.”

Sherlock stays silent for a moment, watching Molly generously piling rice on to her plate. He scowls.  _ John  _ made Molly bring the food for him,  _ Sherlock.  _ He isn’t sure why Molly is eating like the one who hasn’t had a morsel past her lips for seventeen hours.

“Have you been starving for seventeen hours, Molly?”

“Nuuh, I just had lunch”, Molly says around a mouthful of egg roll. “And you’re stalling, Sherlock.”

“No I am not. I am starving.”

“Sherlock.”

“I made a bet with John that I could live a week without him.”

Silence greets him. Apparently his statement was important enough for Molly to put down her egg roll.

“Are you out of your mind, Sherlock? Did you fall down and hurt your head?” she asks, looking at him with narrowed eyes. And really, what was it about Sherlock that inspired people to narrow their expression into an unibrow?

Sherlock sneers. “I can live without an army doctor who has imaginary pains in the winter, and who once considered abandoning me at a crime scene to catch the latest episode of some singing show.”

“Sherlock, you wanted John to help you smuggle the victim’s body to your flat! Of course he bloody left!”, says Molly. Sherlock decides he doesn’t like her.

“A  _ singing show,  _ Molly.”

“Anyway, go apologise to John. Buy him flowers. Clean your kitchen. Buy him tea. And bring him back.”

“I shall do no such thing.”

“Sherlock.”

“ _ No.”  _ Sherlock pouts. John will come to him. 

“You do realise John is more stubborn than you? He isn’t going to give in.”

Sherlock lets out a laugh, because, really. Molly was so  _ naive.  _ “He is living with Mycroft and Gertrude, Molly.How long do you think my blogger can last in that nauseating environment?”

Molly smiles. “A lot longer than you, all alone in this empty flat.” She takes her empty plate to the sink, side stepping the liver. Which needs to be put in the fridge in thirteen minutes.

“I lived for twenty eight years without John.”

“Not very well, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks at her, standing near the sofa and slowly gathering her things. 

“I can make John come to me, Molly. He cannot resist me for long.”

“Whatever you  say, Sherlock” Molly says, eyeing his half eaten rice.

“Molly, you’ve put on three pounds in the last month. I think you should talk to Mycroft about diets that don’t work. Good day to you, Molly Hooper.” Nobody was stealing his chicken, thank you very much, the chicken that  _ John  _ asked to be brought for him.

Molly sighs and shakes her head in an impressive impression of a poodle. “Hang on, why are you googling Simon Cowell?”

“I find him to be an engaging character. Now good day to you. Don’t you have dead bodies waiting?”

"Check out the Larry Stylinson tag on tumblr. John and I have a wager ourselves, on that.” Molly waves at him, making her way to the doorway.

Sherlock is much too busy tearing into his chicken before he remembers to ask into thin air, “What is a tumblr?”

*

**_Twenty hours, seven minutes and fifty six seconds since John moved out_ **

Sherlock barely hears the phone over the noise of the chain saw. He doesn’t remember why he thought it was a good idea to saw the dining table in half, but it seemed like the thing to do then. 

“Hello?”

“I will accompany mummy to all her plays when she is in town,” Mycroft’s desperate voice greets him. “All of her plays. Even les miserables.”

“No, Mycroft,” Sherlock tells him. “Did you know John had a chainsaw in the cupboard?”

“Seriously Sherlock,” Mycroft snaps at him. “I can’t take this any longer. Will you please just come here and get him? Hang on, what was that about a chainsaw?”

“John has one. In the cupboard.”

“And what are you doing with it?” Mycroft asks him in the same tone he uses to determine if the elections in a foreign nation need to be met with hostile action. 

“Splitting the dining table in half,” Sherlock tells him like it is the most casual thing in the world. “I have always wanted to test the resistance of the table.”

He hears the phone be passed off, with a gentle ‘ _ I-can’t-handle-him-you-try’  _ before Sherlock hears Lestrade’s concerned baritone. 

“What about the dining table, now?” 

“Ah, Lestrade,” Sherlock asks, smiling. “The Bahamas didn’t work out, I see.”  _ See John, I can so totally pay attention to the details. I listen. See?  _

“Sherlock,” Lestrade speaks to him, ever patient and calm. “Beheading in Manchester. Double beheading, gruesome and bloody. One phone call and I can get you in on the crime scene. Want to go?”

“Yes, I shall call a cab. Brief me on the way, would you?”

“Sure,” Lestrade replies, happy to drop the bomb. “Right after you apologize to John and give in on this stupid wager. And I will still have three hours with Myc before having to go back to work.”

“No, Gordon,” Sherlock retorts. “There is no wager that I can’t win.” He scoffs. “All of you worry for nothing. John will be back here in no time, to watch me solve the beheadings. Where is the beheading?”

“No beheading for you till John is out of my apartment, you hear me? Dear Lord, what was that?”

“The table resistance isn’t as much as I hoped it would be,” Sherlock responds, fascinated. “Ask John to pick up a new table on his way home, would you?”

“Sherlock,” Gavin says, his voice taking on a pleading tone now. “Please tell me you don’t have a live chainsaw in one hand right this instant.”

“Sure,” Sherlock tells him, ever appeasing.  _ See John, I can make people happy. I can give them what they want.  _ “I don’t have a live chainsaw in one hand right this instant.”

He hears John’s loud ‘ _ He-did-what-to-the-dining-table?!’  _ from behind Lestrade, and can’t help the involuntary thrill down his body he feels at hearing that voice, even if it seems as though John is quite angry at the moment. It is Mycroft; the old sod makes everyone angry. 

“How much is this wager for?” Lestrade asks. “Whatever it is, Mycroft and I will pay the both of you. Just go home!” 

“Oh, we didn’t actually bet  _ on anything.” _

“You’re kidding me,” Gale tells him, exasperated. “You didn’t actually bet on anything? I am missing on some really awesome anniversary sex for  _ nothing?  _ Mycroft, we are disowning your side of the family. I have three brothers. You can keep them.”

Gale hangs up on him, which is quite rude. John disapproves of rudeness. He doesn’t understand why he is staying with such rude people. Rude and fat, he thinks to himself. John has most definitely lost his mind without Sherlock. 

He turns the chainsaw back on and starts walking toward the coffee table. He will miss it when he needs to put his feet up somewhere, but eh, then he will have an excuse to rest his feet on John’s lap. It’s quite comfortable, if he may say so himself. 

*

**_Twenty four hours, two minutes and five seconds since John moved out_ **

_ John. _

_ Dr. Watson. _

_ Joooohn.  _

_ John, ignoring me is only going to make you miss me more. _

_ Are you asleep, John? My brother and Grant are probably doing unspeakable things in the next room. Honestly John, how would you live with yourself if you have to sleep through that? Due to my interest in your well-being, I shall allow you to return to the flat. _

_ John. _

_ John, you’re being very childish.  _

_ John, answer my call. _

_ John, did Griffin tell you about the beheadings, John? Two of them, in Manchester. We could have so much fun, like we did in Dartmoor.  _

_ John, if you answer my call, I shall tell you about this Larry Stylinson. I know what’s going on, really, it’s so obvious. But only if you pick up. _

_ John, really.  _

_ John, we can even go to see that football match when we go to Manchester. That team you and Gabe drink to every week. Manchester United.  _

_ Did you know that the name Manchester United doesn’t make sense for a team? Isn’t it obvious that they would be united? Why do you like this team again, John? Come here so I can correct your poor life choices. _

_ Gareth said he would tell me about the beheadings if you return to 221B. He is on my side. Why can’t you leave my brother to act out his kinky fantasies with Gareth, John?  _

_ John, I demand you return at once. If you have any interest in saving Mrs. Hudson’s wall from bullets. _

_ John, did you take your gun with you? _

_ * _

**_Thirty hours, two minutes and seventeen seconds since John moved out._ **

There is a cup of tea on the floor by the sofa (the coffee table was in five pieces, none sturdy enough for Mrs. Hudson to place a cup of tea on). Sherlock ignores it. While Mrs. Hudson’s tea was better than his own attempts, it never quite lived up to John standards. Maybe John should quit his practice and open a tea shop at 221B. Sherlock would be quite happy being the only customer, since he isn’t planning on letting other people buy John’s tea. 

He sits up on the sofa (he is grateful for not taking the chainsaw to the sofa too, it’s quite comfortable) and glances at the living room. The room is boring without John’s presence to fill it. A gleam of the light from the window catches on a metallic glint, thrust between the cushions on John’s armchair. 

His stethoscope. 

John’s life-saving stethoscope. 

Sherlock suddenly misses John very much. He had been  _ just fine,  _ mind you. He had been doing splendidly without John. But John saves lives. John, with his magical hands and stupid plaid shirts and grim determination and customary politeness. 

He misses John so much suddenly that the apartment becomes unbearable to stay in. 

221B is really useless without John in it. Sherlock wants to win this bet, he does, and he  _ knows  _ that he can. He needs to make their nice, warm apartment more appealing to John than Mycroft’s stupid little love nest. With a plan in place, Sherlock makes a list on his phone. He usually can remember most things, but this is too important to risk accidentally deleting something from his very sharp mind. 

He types: 

**Operation Watson-Up the Apartment**

**To Do List:**

 

  * ****Buy tea****


  * **Buy some more tea**


  * **Procure food. How? (ask Mycroft; he is always eating)**


  * **Milk (this is important for some reason)**


  * **Do not put eyeballs in said milk**


  * **Throw out body parts in the fridge**


  * **Buy a trash can**


  * **Don’t tell John about what happened to last trash can**


  * **Clean dining table**


  * **Buy new dining table**


  * **~~Buy coffee table~~ ****(John will have to put his feet up in your lap, don’t buy coffee table)**


  * **Take Mycroft’s credit card to the place with the milk**


  * **Ask Mrs. Hudson about the route to** ~~ **the place with the milk**~~ **the grocery store**



 

 

Sherlock cannot help but grin at the truly spectacular plan he has in place to lure John back to his side. This is even better than beheadings, he smirks to himself. He will win the bet, and that will teach John to never leave him again, even if Mycroft and Greg have spectacular bakery shows Ti-Voed. 

_ That’s stupid _ , he reminds himself.  _ His name can’t be something so stupid as Greg. It is Gabriel. Yes, Mycroft and Gabriel and their stupid land with the cakes and singing shows.  _

After calling a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock throws on his coat and calls a cab. 

*

**_Thirty one hours, twenty two minutes and eight seconds since John moved out._ **

“Excuse me”, Sherlock calls out to the woman behind the counter, “Where can I find the food John likes?”

The man throws Sherlock a derisive look, before yelling out, “Lily! I am clocking off, deal with this, bye!” 

“The man you’re sleeping with has Chlamydia.” Sherlock calls out, and smiles.  _ Take that, John. I can be so nice.  _ He turns away and decides to go look for John-food himself. This grocery store (Tesco’s, it said outside, Sherlock can’t be bothered to remember names of places he is unlikely to visit again) was labeled section-wise, Sherlock just has to look for the section named John-food. This was so easy, he had no idea why John had to complain so much every time he came here.

**_Eighteen minutes later_ **

Sherlock was  _ exhausted. _

Why do people do this? Why would they subject their already dull minds to mind numbing exercises such as this? He drags the shopping cart along (John should be doing this, with all the muscles and the upper body strength. John was  _ cruel).  _

First of all, there was so much milk everywhere. Skimmed, whole, soy, low-fat, churned, almond, and not to mention the different flavored ones. Sherlock has no idea which one John prefers, so he gets a little of everything. He also buys thirty boxes of Yorkshire tea, John’s favorite blend, and goes out in search of food (maybe John could make him the thing with the peas and the chicken tonight). After a while, Sherlock gets really impatient and just throws random things into the trolley. He can’t wait to go back home and get 221B ready for John. 

The line at check-out is ridiculously long. Sherlock clears it out quickly by making polite conversation with the people ahead of him in the queue; the lady with the bun (“ _ Your husband is gay.”)  _ is very nice, the tall mongoose headed boy (“ _ You have Huntington’s disease.”)  _ has only a few months to live, the poor thing. There is also been the ballet dancer ( _ “You are pregnant. Don’t tell the father. He is already married to your cousin.”).  _

The sixty-year old directly behind him smiles kindly at him and points to his trolley, “It is nice you’re buying tampons for your lady, dear. Most men don’t bother. You’re a sweetheart.”

“Oh no, these are for John.”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, looks at the incredulous look on the old lady’s face, picks up the box of tampons and drops it in her cart. “Actually, you might have more use for this. John doesn’t possess ovaries. Good day!”

_ Such nice people at the grocery store, _ he thinks to himself. They move out of the queue really quickly to allow Sherlock to get to the front. He doesn’t get all the fuss John makes about waiting times and pin machines. 

Credit cards are weird things. The girl at the counter ( _ “Need to watch your weight. Stop eating the cheetos under the counter, really.”)  _ had seemed like she wanted nothing more than to send him on his way. She packed his things in such a hurry. 

Sherlock is incredibly satisfied with his successful foray into the land of the boring. The different types of milk on the other hand, had been very interesting. He wonders if eyeballs behaved the same way in almond milk as they did in soy milk. Maybe one gallon for eyeballs wouldn’t hurt… 

*

**_Thirty two hours, four minutes and forty five seconds since John moved out._ **

“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft looks up from his phone screen, eyes widened in shock like the time he found out the Royal family was kidnapped. 

“What?” John asks, barely keeping panic out of his voice. Nothing that makes Mycroft look like that can be good news. 

"My brother just purchased eight different types of milk,” Mycroft states, his brows hidden behind his (receding) hairline. “Two gallons each.”

“Sherlock is grocery shopping?” John asks, wondering which parallel universe he has been transported to suddenly.

“Voluntarily?” Greg squeaks out, adding his surprise. 

“Maybe he has been kidnapped and is sending a coded message?” John suggests, sitting down on their futon. He needs to be sitting down for this. 

“That must be quite a message, seeing as he also purchased thirty boxes of Yorkshire, scented candles, knitting needles, seventy yards of yarn, and dog food.” 

“We don’t have a dog,” answers John, because if he tried to respond to every bit of Mycroft’s statement, he will go insane. 

“Maybe he is having a midlife crisis,” Greg chimes in. “Maybe this is one of those hobbies he shares with Mrs. Hudson. Maybe they get together and knit every second Tuesday.”

Mycroft sits down on the futon next to John. 

“I think I am going back to the office,” he tells the pair of them. “When my brother acts like this, it usually means a foreign government is about to declare war. That, or he pissed off the  _ Woman  _ again.”

“I thought she died,” John points out, angry now. 

“Oops,” Mycroft says, getting up and shrugging on his jacket. “Spoiler alert.”

“Mycroft! Are you telling me Irene Adler is  _ alive?”  _ John chokes out. “Does Sherlock know this? Do you know what you have put him through, Mycroft? Jesus!” John needs tea.

Mycroft gives him a pointed, knowing look.  _ The bastard,  _ John thinks,  _  he knew all along.  _

“Right, I am going to check on Sherlock, yeah? Make sure he doesn’t burn down the city.” John says. He barely hears Greg’s sigh of relief through the blood rushing through his head. 

John needs to have a talk with a certain consulting detective about a dominatrix he believed was dead.  _ What is my life,  _ he thinks as he steps out into the cold London air. He blames Stamford, the stupid nice man. He blames himself too, for getting sucked into Sherlock. He probably should blame the British government too, he is sure they had a part in sending him to Afghanistan, which led to the events that brought him to Sherlock.

“I blame you, Mycroft!” he shouts out as a farewell. 

John pretends he doesn’t hear the thumpa-thump that follows Greg jumping on Mycroft behind him.

*

**_Thirty three and two minutes since John moved out._ **

With every step to 221B, John resists the urge to be sick at the images filling his head; images of a very naked Sherlock tracing fingertips down the flawless  back of that  _ woman,  _ that shameless creature who would get undressed for no reason at all.

He is  _ not jealous.  _ He is just  _ fine,  _ mind you. He is merely concerned for his friend’s well-being. 

He does not like the knowing look Mrs. Hudson sends in his direction when he sheds his coat at the foot of the stairs. 

“Ha!” she exclaims at him with great zeal. “Mr. Chatterjee owes me thirty bucks. Not even thirty six hours and you are back.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” John hollers at her from the base of the stairs. “Find other things to wager about. Besides, isn’t Mr. Chatterjee married? Twice?”

He flings open the door to 221B and finds Sherlock arranging cans of milk in the refrigerator. 

“I don’t like soy milk,” he blurts out, and then cringes. 

Sherlock doesn’t even pause in his maniacal arrangement of the cans of milk. “Good, I can use it for the eyeballs”, he says absently, before freezing.  “Not that there  _ are  _ eyeballs in the refrigerator. Or  _ anywhere  _ in the apartment, for that matter. Nowhere. Except in our eye sockets, attached and very much functional.”

They stare at each other for a second, and time stands still in that tiny corner of 221B. 

“You are speaking to me,” Sherlock, being the genius consulting detective he is, observes. “You are here, and you are speaking to me again.”

“Well spotted, you must be a detective or something”, John says, with a tiny smile teasing his  lips.  _ He had missed this,  _ not that Sherlock is ever going to hear about this from him.

Sherlock, for his part is standing absolutely still, refrigerator door handing agape beside him, the bags of -  _ was that kale? Why did Sherlock buy kale? -  _ kale lying ignored. 

“Well,” Sherlock speaks after what seems like forever to John. “I am glad to see you are back where you belong. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

“What?” John manages to spit out, “Sherlock, you are the one who went and got groceries!  _ Groceries.  _ It was to bring me back, wasn’t it? Hang on, how did you even know where the grocery store is? Did you terrorise someone to take you there? What do I have to fix?”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Sherlock bellows, annoyed. “I am not writing apology notes again, no matter what you say. Besides, I went all by myself. Got a cab and everything. I don’t see what the big deal is. Everyone was wonderfully nice to me. No chip and pin machines to piss off. Have you ever considered  _ you _ might be the problem, John?”

“Wait,  _ you spoke to people at the store?”  _ John wants to wring Sherlock’s obnoxiously long and pale neck. “Are you allowed to go to that store again? Oh god, Sherlock, if you’ve gone ahead and got me banned from Tesco’s, I am moving out.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Sherlock reprimands, cool and deadpan snark. “I bought a lot of useful things, advised the other patrons about their various life and health choices, donated a box of tampons to this lovely lady and came back home to find you here. Couldn’t take the notion that I am surviving just fine without you, could you?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. He needs tea. “I need tea”, he breathes out. Sherlock very helpfully points out the thirty boxes lying neatly on- _ oh the bastard broke the dining table-  _ a broken fragment of what used to be a lovely dining table. “Tea,” he mutters again, and picks up one of the boxes.

“Are you willing to admit that you lost our little wager?” Sherlock asks, moving aside to let John work. He settles on his couch again, stretching out in relative peace with the world. John was in the kitchen making tea. He was on his couch. The world was alright again. 

“I didn’t lose it, you  _ cock.  _ You lured me back here. You missed me. Now, I do not want to hear one word out of you before this kettle’s boiled.” 

“I didn’t miss you,” Sherlock scoffs, offended. “I had  _ beheadings,  _ John. Plural. More than one head came off in Manchester. I was busy catching murderers while you watched Simon Cowell make heart eyes at Cheryl Cole. They are sleeping together, did you know?”

“They are?” John asks before he can help himself. “Not the point, Sherlock. And you need to stop lying, Greg told me you didn’t even care about the beheadings. Needed your blogger, didn't you?” John asks smugly. 

“His name is Greg? Why did he change it? Gamil was such a masculine name. Greg is just -  _ silly.”  _

“ _ That isn’t the point, Sherlock!”  _ John has had enough of this. “Tell me, did Irene Adler make you any tea the last few hours? I know how you get without tea, you’re as bad as me. Did she give you some good tea? Did she put in the three sugars-you’re going to get diabetes soon, by the way.Did she do your laundry, and clean up after you? Oh that’s right, she doesn’t wear clothes, there wouldn’t be any laundry to do. Or were you too busy smouldering at each other to do that?”

Sherlock is stunned speechless by John’s rampage, and for nearly two full minutes, his brain can’t think of anything beyond  _ John’s-eyes-flash-when-he-is-angry-he’s-so-pretty.  _ After a whole second reboot, he considers his options. Lazarus means you go with the most frightening but necessary step. And right now, nothing seems more essential than kissing John senseless. For science, really. He has always wanted to catalog the taste of John’s tongue against his, the thud of his heart in the middle of anger, the earthy sweet scent of John’s  _ Johnness  _ in his moments of jealousy. 

Sherlock may not know much about humans or nature or human nature, but he knows John. He has entire dissertations on John Watson, and this emotion right now? His little human is jealous. 

_ Phew, silly John,  _ he internally scoffs, taking a step forward from the couch, holding John’s face in his hands and leaning down to press his lips to the older man’s. John’s next words are muffled, and after a moment’s shock, he kisses back, enthusiastically and with fervor. 

John moans into Sherlock’s mouth, those lush and full lips he has been inadvertently dreaming of for  _ months,  _ really. He runs his hands down Sherlock’s back, down the gentle slope of his arse. Sherlock gasps, detaching his mouth from John’s, his head falling onto his shoulder. 

“I have been waiting forever to get my hands on this arse,” John breathes out. “Forever, Sherlock.”

“The next time you want something,  _ do it _ , John.”

Later, much later, when they both lie sated and sweaty beside the kitchen counter (moving upstairs to the bedroom had seemed enormous and requiring more brainpower than either of them possessed), John cataloges the various nooks and crannies of Sherlock. The mole at the back of his neck, the rough calluses at his fingertips, the arch of his back and the stretch of his toes - it is like learning a whole new language; but if John Watson is anything, it is patient and determined. He can relearn and rearrange whole galaxies if Sherlock would let him. 

Right now, Sherlock is humming something into John’s skin, his lips pressing down on his sternum, and John catches familiar recitations. 

“Gladiolus, xiphoid, manubrium, clavicle,” Sherlock recites, climbing up John’s chest to his neck. 

“I am not a biology lesson, Sherlock,” John scolds half heartedly. It is a little too late to worry about how he finds Sherlock’s little eccentricities charming instead of weird. He blames Stamford. 

“Please don’t think of Stamford when I am doing this,” Sherlock mutters into his neck, biting down and pressing hard. 

“How did you - ?” John’s question is lost halfway through his lips, as Sherlock does something wondrous to his collarbone. 

“Remind. Me. To. Send. Him. A. Fruit. Basket.” Sherlock mutters out, and soon, all other thought is driven away from John’s mind, as they enthusiastically start in on their little piece of forever. 

 

**~ finis ~**

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, we applaud you. Leave a comment to either tell us you loved it, or to add to the petition to ban us from ever using google doc again. Either way, leave your two cents.


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